


Comeuppance

by ToreyTaylor



Category: Original Work
Genre: Cats, Dark, Death, Gen, Ghosts, Graphic Scenes, Horror, Paranormal, Psychological
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-13 18:58:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToreyTaylor/pseuds/ToreyTaylor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A woman's lifelong hatred of cats comes back to haunt her in the most terrifying way imaginable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**21st November, 1974**

It was snowing heavily, the fierce wind lashing against the window and making the loose catch rattle. The flakes weren't drifting gently down like they had been for most of the day but were being dragged through the icy air by the unforgiving wind. It was a blizzard and Enid felt exposed to the elements around her, even though she was cooped up in her small and cosy top floor apartment.

She drew the curtains and instantly felt her nerves loosen. She picked out her favourite record, placed it onto the vinyl and let the sexy and oh so soothing voice of Elvis Presley carry her thoughts to the hot and humid Deep South where the only snow would drop on the highest mountain peaks. It was a far cry from bleak old England and she enjoyed the idea that music could have such a profound effect on a person.

Her Siamese cat circled her legs affectionately and meowed loudly to alert her that it wanted her attention. That was Sky, so-called because of her dazzlingly blue eyes, and when she wanted attention she got it. Enid couldn't resist looking into her eyes as she lovingly scratched her back. To Enid they looked like tiny orbs of pure sunlit sky.

As well as Sky, Enid had a lot of other cats. Figaro was pure black everywhere except for his chest, neck and nose area which were pure white. It looked like he was wearing a tuxedo and boy did he know it. He was the snob of the family, often turning his head whenever his name was called. He also took a liking to anything round or shiny.

Queenie was fat and liked to think she owned the place. Whenever an unfamiliar noise was heard she would strut her stuff, charging about the place with her head held high as if showing she was the boss.

Polly and Cleo were never away from each other even though they looked worlds apart. Polly was a prim little tortoiseshell with shiny fur and long, agile legs. Cleo was a shabby tabby with a thick bushy tail almost the same size as her body. They'd often cuddle up with each other lovingly and it always made Enid's heart melt.

And lastly, there was George, the lazy ginger tom who never ventured off Enid's bed, even when his stomach was grumbling for food. He wasn't in the lounge which was no big surprise. In fact, she doubted he'd even moved from her bed all day, not even for a wee in the litter box.

Even though cats were very often aloof and independent, she just couldn't understand how anyone could dislike these creatures. She saw it as a blot on her otherwise sweet personality, but it made her feel quite angry; so angry that her blood used to sometimes feel as though it was boiling. Forget dogs, it was the cat that would always be mans best friend. Forever and always. Always there to protect the ones they loved. And their own reputation, of course. That was the cats' way.

Enid sat down on the sofa and Sky jumped up to be with her. She started kneading the soft fabric to make herself comfortable and while she was doing that Queenie was sat on top of the television, her huge back arched and her tail hanging down over the screen. Figaro was making a nuisance of himself by deciding to play catch with a piece of rolled up paper that had fallen onto the floor. Polly and Cleo were sleeping in their basket below the television, their paws wrapped around each other lovingly. Enid was so transfixed on the goings on of her cats that she didn't notice the grey smoke snaking into the air from the back of the television. Queenie hadn't noticed either and nor did the snoozing couple. Everything was as it normally should be on a cold, early winter's evening and it was a normality she took for granted; a normality that would end up costing her her life.

Something startled Queenie and she jumped from the television set and up onto Enid's lap, claws unsheathed and digging into the soft flesh of her owner's knees. She cried out in pain and instinctively brought up her hand to swipe Queenie off her lap. As she did she saw what was happening over in the corner behind the television. She gasped.

Thick grey smoke was billowing into the air and Enid unconsciously darted towards it to remove the plugs before realising that they weren't even switched on. Panic swept through her as she realised she was powerless to stop it, especially since she had no idea where it was even coming from. She saw the vent against the wall that separated her living room from her next door. The smoke was coming from there, she was quite positive about it.

She leapt to her feet again and rushed to her neighbour's front door. She didn't realise that her own front door slammed shut, preventing her from getting back in. She pelted on her neighbour's door with her fists and cried out their names. No answer. She could feel something hot coil up her legs and as she looked down she saw smoke rising through the tiny crack between the door and the floor. She jumped back when she heard sounds from within. She could hear the ferocious rumble of flames and then a sharp thud as something (or someone, she thought) crashed to the floor. Beyond, she could hear someone screaming. She thought it had to be Barbara.

"Barbara!" she yelled. "Barbara, can you open the door? I…I'll call 999!" She dropped slowly to her knees when Barbara not only failed to respond but had also stopped screaming. Barbara and Howard had been her neighbours for over ten years. For that to end like this was unbearable and seemed unjust. They were good people. Careful people. They didn't deserve to have this happen to them; it _shouldn't_ have, and Enid didn't deserve to have lost them. Maybe they were still alive, she thought. She screamed both their names again, twice, three times. She shouted louder still on the fourth turn. Nothing. Only the roar of the inferno within seemed to call back to her, taunting her.

A sudden, painful thought occurred to her. The cats. What if the fire had already spread to her apartment? Panic was clutching at every part of her body now. She raced back to her front door, saw it had locked shut behind her and screamed. Her cats were in there! She needed to get back in and quickly. She pushed at the door but it was locked tight. She walked backwards and then lunged forwards pushing all her weight against the door. The plaster around the hinges broke away but nothing more. She tried the same tactic again and again until the left side of her body was burning with pain. Eventually it swung open and she fell through into the smoky hallway. She coughed violently as the acrid black smoke hit her lungs. She managed to get onto her hands and knees and crawl through into the living room. She called out their names as best she could but every time she did she hacked up blackened phlegm. She spat it out on the floor feeling incredibly dirty for committing such an act, even in such harrowing circumstances. The smoke was stinging her eyes and making them run. They tried to shut but she forced them open, trying desperately to see just one of her cats alive and well.

She saw Queenie lying there in the middle of the inferno, her cream coloured fur now bright orange as the fire shone fiercely around her. Her eyes were closed. She might have been dead or she may have been unconscious. She looked unharmed. The fire seemed to have made an arc around her. Her other cats were nowhere to be seen and Enid assumed the worst. She could feel herself losing consciousness but managed to turn her head to Polly and Cleo's cat basket. The fire had caught it and the cats were still in there, badly burned paws still wrapped lovingly around each other. They had died in their sleep and it was a minor consolation that the smoke had probably knocked them unconscious before the flames had got them. Figaro. She couldn't see him anywhere. Nor Sky. What about George? Was he safe? He'd be in the bedroom. Oh God, please let at least one of them be safe, she thought. Please God.

The smoke boomed suddenly, perhaps from a sudden rush of air from somewhere, and the flames billowed inwards, towards Queenie. Enid rushed forwards with the last bit of energy that she had and dragged Queenie's body towards her and then under her. She fell to the floor shielding the cat from the brunt of the flames before falling unconscious and then dying.


	2. Bad Atmosphere

**21st November, 2008**

Debbie was so glad the Friday she had been anticipating had finally rolled around, albeit slowly. The workaholic and mother of two had booked a short break in a Bristol hotel with just herself for company, leaving work actually _at_ work for once and her wonderful but blissfully ignorant husband looking after the kids all on his own. She chuckled to herself, half with glee and half devilishly as she imagined him right now with the two little (lovely) terrors, wondering how he would cope.

They'd met each other twelve years ago at a posh do her friend was hosting. He was dressed up to the nine's and she would have been had her black dress not got caught in the car door as she shut it. As she walked towards the front door of the posh hall, the bottom of her dress tore upwards, making a harsh, unpleasant ripping sound as it did and revealing quite a lot of leg. Either way, she and Colin struck it off, Colin saying that her smile could light up the room and that her leg was the sexiest leg he'd ever laid eyes on. She could remember blushing so much she thought her head would explode but she also felt extremely charmed to have met such a wonderful man.

Three years later they were married and a year after that Ellie was born. It wasn't until Ellie turned three that they realised something was wrong. At first they thought she was just going to be one of those quiet ones that never said much, but don't the quiet ones actually talk, albeit seldom? Ellie hadn't uttered a word. Not once. Six months later she'd been diagnosed with autism. She was hard work and partly the reason she needed this break. She loved her so much and she hoped, somehow, that Ellie could sense that.

When Ellie turned two, a sister came along. Cassie was the complete opposite, talking to anybody, be it friend or stranger. She even had a lot of imaginary friends although she'd never divulge their names or who they were. "It's a seeeecret," she'd say. She and Colin tried to get Cassie help Ellie to talk, open up a bit, but it didn't work and deep down Debbie knew it wouldn't. You couldn't get blood out of a stone no matter how hard you tried. Those miracle stories you heard in the news were one in a million and she became resigned to the fact that it just wasn't meant to be.

She scoped the room she'd be staying in for the weekend. It was very pleasant, aesthetically, at least. It had a high, pristine white ceiling with a modern, glassy chandelier hanging from it, each round, tiny glass panel reflecting the day's last sunlight around the room. The carpet was cream-coloured that shone dusky orange where the warm light from an early winter's sunset cascaded through the arced window and fell there, and on the adjoining wall was a large bay window leading out onto a darkened balcony overlooking the estuary. The three-suite settee was placed overlooking the bay window so one could sit there, either during the day or at night, taking in what Bristol is best known for – its maritime charm.

It ought to have been perfect, but it wasn't. There was something very odd about it; unnerving. It was nothing she could see or hear, it was something she could smell. It turned the whole atmosphere heavy and oddly claustrophobic, like an invisible toxic fume snaking its way around the room. The more she grew aware of its presence the more it repulsed her. It smelled of cats; not just one cat somehow coming into the room to be curious (how it could get up here on the top floor she didn't know) but many cats actually living here, coughing up furballs here, puking up half digested mice here, eating and crapping here. Having had to help out daily at the cattery her mother ran back when she was a child, she knew of the things that many cat lovers failed to realise – that, although cute and cuddly, cats could actually be incredibly filthy. She didn't like to admit it but she hated them and always would.

"Good evening, you're through to room service, how may I help you?" chirped the sickly and faux professional voice of a young woman.

"Hello, I was just wondering really, but would you be able to tell me how often these rooms are cleaned, please? It's just that there's a smell in here and it's not very nice."

"They're cleaned daily". The calm professionalism in her voice was beginning to wane. "We hire only the most professional cleaners in this establishment. Is it possible to give me a clue as to what it smells like?" She added a please at the end but said it stiffly as if she had to strain herself. Perhaps she was just having a bad day, Debbie thought.

"Sure. It's odd really, but it smells like cat. It's so strong, it's like cats have been living here recently. It's probably just me being silly," she laughed, trying to apply some humour into the conversation. It didn't work.

"That's _quite_ impossible madam. This hotel is very strict with its policies. Had you read the policies before staying here you would have understood that we don't allow any pets of any kind here."

"Are you positive? It's so strong that it's making me feel sick."

"I'm _quite_ positive, madam!" The young woman on the other end had lost the professionalism in her voice completely and now she was more than just a little bit snotty. The sharp undertones made it sound like there was an anger bubbling away inside her.

Debbie put the phone down and sniffed obnoxiously.

"Cleaned daily…" she muttered. "Yes, of course they're cleaned daily! It's not cat smell I can smell, it's fresh linen, air freshener and disinfectant!" Sarcasm was the lowest form of wit or so her grandma would always say but right now she didn't care. That woman ought not to be dealing with the public, not with an attitude like that. She had half a mind to ring her back up and ask her to smell the damn room herself. Then she'd realise that she was actually, for once, in the wrong. She was the type of woman who didn't think she could ever be wrong, her voice said it all.

She tried to forget about the woman and instead decided to test out the settee. It was actually beyond comfortable; it was like sitting on a white fluffy cloud. Her bum sank into its cushions and she could feel the soft fabric touching the bare skin on her lower back where her top had risen up slightly. She could have closed her eyes and slept but that awful smell was still there, stinging her nose as well as her nerves. Her hatred of cats rose up like bile and when it did the smell seemed to grow stronger, fiercer.

She couldn't relax. She shot off the settee and dialled room service again.

"You again," the sharp voice of the rude receptionist snapped. Debbie thought her room number must have come up on the phone.

"Yes, it's me again," she replied, trying to keep the imaginary bile from spewing out her mouth. It was hard but she thought she managed to keep her cool. "I'm still not satisfied with this smell. It's not my imagination, I assure you."

There was a sigh.

"Okay, okay. I will send one of my porters up to your room so that he can make sure nothing's crawled up there and died. I assure you though, nothing has. But if you will insist on making accusations…"

"Thank you very much," Debbie said falsely and put the phone down before the bile could take hold.

_Her_ porter. Who did she think she was, the bloody owner? She never realised hotel receptionists could be this uppity. And who was making accusations? She had a complaint, that was all. A valid one. Usually she'd let things slide but she really couldn't help it if she hated cats and all things associated with them. The odour swelled again making her want to rush to the toilet. She managed to contain it.

The front door buzzed, making her jump. She peered through the peephole and saw a young man with shiny black hair that was combed back like John Travolta's in Grease. It looked like he'd applied a whole tub of gel onto it which had dried and made his hair take on a plastic sheen. His skin was spotty and badly looked after and he seemed to have a twitch in his right eye. It was just some kid really, trying to make a bit of money as a hotel porter as well as going through the rough life stage of adolescence. Oh, what a pain that was. She remembered it well. Debbie hoped he hadn't been taking personality lessons from Little Miss Rudeness down there. She let him in.

"Hi there," he said nonchalantly. "I've been told to come up here 'cos you've got a problem or something, right?"

"That's right," Debbie responded, relieved that someone could see that she wasn't just making a fuss over nothing. "The receptionist thought I was just complaining for the fun of it but I'm not." She sniffed to make a point. "Bad, isn't it?"

He sniffed and then took an even bigger sniff which made his nostrils flare. He looked puzzled.

"Sorry, what?" he said, his puzzled expression matching the tone of his voice.

"Can't you smell it?"

"Smell what?"

"That smell! It's so strong, how can you not smell it!?" she boomed. She felt instantly guilty when he reeled back slightly. "I'm sorry," she added. "I'm just…confused. And a bit scared. I can smell cats in this room. Can't you?"

"No ma'am. I can't."

"Call me Debbie."

"Okay, Debbie. I think it's your imagination 'cos all I can smell is air freshener and clean sheets. No pets're allowed in this hotel either."

"Will I be allowed to change rooms?" she asked. She doubted it but she just knew she had to get away from this room. Something was wrong about it. A smell that only she could smell was extremely unsettling.

"I'll have to ask, hang on a bit, I'll phone the receptionist."

Her heart dropped. She doubted it in the first place but there wasn't a bat in Hell's chance she'd be able to swap rooms now.

He pulled out a walkie-talkie and dialled in a number.

"Hello, Anthony Burns here. Is that you, Lucille?"

No wonder she was so snotty with a name like that. She'd obviously had a very posh upbringing. It was, after all, a very posh name.

"I'm in Room 108. Er yeah. That one. Would it be possible for the lady to change rooms?

Are you sure? Well, would it be possible to check? Okay, I'll take your word for it then. Thanks, Lucille."

He put his walkie-talkie back into his blazer pocket.

"Sorry but the receptionist's informed me there aren't any vacancies left in the hotel."

"What, even in late November?" she asked.

"Yeah, sorry. Bristol's like New York, it never sleeps. Well, actually it's not a thing like the Big Apple but it's always busy even in winter. Again I'm sorry. Anything else you need?"

"Yes, I'd like to check out, please." She said it without really engaging her brain or her feelings. She needed this break. She loved her job and loved the salary even more than her job but it was stressful and she needed this. She loved her kids too but motherhood was a very demanding job in itself. All she wanted right now though was to get out of here because the atmosphere was wrong. It was wrong and she wanted out.

"What, you sure?" the porter asked, surprised.

"Yes, I'm sure." A pause. "Wait."

It was just a smell, really. A horrible, filthy cat smell but still just a smell nonetheless. Should she jeopardise her entire weekend, the break she'd been eagerly awaiting, because of some smell? Rational thought had finally come into play and now that she considered it it didn't seem so bad after all.

She eyed the open bathroom and saw a gorgeous looking power shower just waiting to be turned on. She didn't need to check out, not when a weekend relaxing and being pampered was awaiting her. She didn't really need to spend the entirety of her weekend in the hotel room anyway. Suddenly, things were starting to seem a little brighter.

She told Anthony that she had changed her mind and off he went, probably to do something more normal. She felt a bit embarrassed knowing he'd come up here on the word of some lady saying she could smell a strange odour and then finding out that the odour in question was actually non-existent (to him at least. It was still powerful to Debbie). He probably got that sort of behaviour a lot, though, come to think of it. She ought not to worry.

All that she cared about right now was that shower. Forget about the smell, and cats, and him and the snotty receptionist. She was going to have some well deserved time for her. She walked into the bathroom and shut the door behind her. The smell was still in the air but only became noticeable when she sniffed hard. Yes, things definitely seemed brighter all of a sudden and she liked that. She turned on the power shower.


	3. Not Alone

It was the best power shower she'd ever been in. In fact, her life had been deprived of power showers for almost all her life. She could remember using one when they went to Spain last year but before then she hadn't even known of their existence. The one at home was just a normal shower but that didn't deserve to even be called a shower; it was more like a 'trickler'. It took her fifteen minutes just to get the shampoo out of her hair, let alone enjoy herself in it.

She'd already washed and shampooed and she was really beginning to wind down for the evening. The smell had left her head and she hadn't sniffed impulsively just because she thought it might still be there for the past twenty minutes or so. She let the steaming hot water run through her hair and down her bare back and shivered as every nerve and muscle in her body relaxed. She really could go to sleep now.

Her heart pummelled inside her chest and her sleepy eyes widened. She turned her head towards the crack beneath the bathroom door but saw nothing. She thought she'd seen something there, small, dark and definitely there. Now her muscles had awoken, her calves aching as her heart sent crazed pulses through her body. She sniffed and it was there again, strong and ominous and nauseating. The smell she thought had gone forever was back but had an undertone that made her belch up vomit. She spat it out in the shower and wiped her mouth with her hand. She could smell burning flesh hidden beneath that putrid cat smell. It felt, to Debbie, like it was lying in wait like a savage animal before unleashing its fury on its unsuspecting victim.

She saw that thing creep under the door again in the corner of her eye. Her head wanted to dart towards it but her mind wouldn't allow it, not at first. She wanted to see it, desperately; she wanted to make sure that it was actually nothing, but a part inside her said it was something evil. She slowly turned her head, palpitations hurting her chest and throat.

A single paw with unsheathed claws was scratching at the bathroom floor hungrily, but it had no fur, just masses of burned, rotting skin. A small patch of skin had come off completely revealing dirty, charred bone. Its grimy claws made an awful ear-splitting sound as they scratched the metallic bathroom tiles. Debbie put her fingers in her mouth and bit down hard to suppress a scream. A muffled cry came out instead and then a gush of warm vomit – not just a trickle this time but a full surge of whatever she'd eaten that day.

She closed her eyes and dropped down low. She didn't know why she'd done it but it was her body that was in control, not her brain. That seemed to have temporarily shut down for she couldn't think straight anymore. Maybe it was survival instinct. If she couldn't see it and it couldn't see her then she would live to see another day. Her brain chipped in for a moment; not in this day and age, she thought. Survival doesn't work that way! She didn't want to succumb to thoughts of pessimistic realism just yet. She felt safe, for now. The smell was suffocating and revolting but it couldn't kill her. That paw, with its razor sharp claws and rotting skin, might have been able to. Down here in the bathtub it wouldn't be able to touch her.

There were no windows which was a troubling thought. In normal circumstances a bathroom with no windows wouldn't pose a problem. In fact, one could feel quite safe there. However, she'd have to escape when the time came and the only exit route was through the bathroom door. The door led to whatever was awaiting her out there. It wasn't just a cat; in fact, she sensed it wasn't even a cat anymore. From the sight of the paw alone Debbie assumed that it was the spirit of a cat that had lived long before this hotel became established and that it had died a horrible, gruesome death. Hadn't it been a block of flats decades ago? She could only vaguely remember.

Her mind suddenly went back to her previous thoughts, when she was standing in the lounge. The smell had been so strong that one cat alone couldn't have produced it. So there was more than one. She sunk even lower into the bathtub; the spray from the shower was hitting her face with hot water but she didn't care. It was safe, albeit rather irritating. She stayed in that position until her neck was stiffening up. As she slowly lifted her body to peer over the top her back cracked painfully making her unleash an agonised yelp. She heard a dreadful sound that seemed to be replying back to her. Cats were howling and hissing, lots of them in unison, as if in a terrifying cat fight to the death. She screamed but the sound was hardly audible in her ears for the sound of screeching cats greatly overpowered it.

The paw was still down there and now it had brought along reinforcements. The door banged and rattled and the screeches were gaining ferocity. Twelve burned paws were clawing the floor and each other as they longed for their target. One paw caught the other with such force that its claws gouged out a piece of flesh. It hung for some time before falling off and hitting the floor with a plop. She could feel a hotness climbing up her gullet but she managed to contain her vomit this time.

There was another sound and the cats stopped screeching all at once. One by one, they withdrew their paws from the crack between floor and door. The sound that had caught their attention was of something big and heavy. It began dragging itself along the floor of the lounge, squelching as it moved; as it moved towards the door Debbie could hear a meaty pop as something, maybe an arm joint, came out of place. It stopped when it reached the bathroom door and she could hear it breathing – no, rattling, its putrid breath rising up through the crack. It smelled worse than cat and burned flesh. It had an odour of what could only be described as rotting insides; a mixture of gas and raw, rotten meat that has been left in a refrigerator to fester. A familiar smell of burning flesh hit the back of her throat and nose as she breathed in. She coughed, once again producing no vomit. She figured she'd either brought all the contents of her stomach up already or she was getting used to this. She presumed it was the former. No one could get used to this. No one.

She thought it was trying to speak. Not really wanting to but feeling like she had to, she turned off the shower and strained her ears to listen closer to the rasping voice beyond the door. At first it sounded like gibberish but then she heard actual words. One of the words sounded like hate. Hater of cats? Revenge. Revenge? What had she done? Revenge for hating us. That was it? She hated cats and was now being subjected to a vicious and macabre attack. This was a nightmare. She hoped to God she'd wake up soon.

She hadn't realised at first but the sound of the shower had been comforting, and now that it was switched off she felt exposed. The sounds from out there could be heard with devastating clarity; anguished screeches echoing throughout the lounge. A hiss here and a bang there. Claws of many cats could be heard clattering about on a wooden floor. A wooden floor. The thought had hit her like a tonne of bricks. The lounge area was carpeted. It sounded like a completely different place now. Things were echoing out there like it was just a shell of a former place, no longer a comfortable room in a posh Bristol hotel. The new inhabitants sounded like they were going nowhere. They sounded like they were waiting. The thing that sounded like it might have once been a person had since crawled away to God knows where. Perhaps lurking behind something, waiting for her to come out so that it could ambush her.

The cat-things hadn't clawed beneath the door for some time and Debbie retreated from the safety of the tub. She felt so cold and exposed and half expected the bathroom door to shoot open as soon as she stepped a little too close to it. She wrapped the pristine white towel around her body and tightly hugged herself. Then she dropped to her knees and crawled, hesitantly, towards the crack beneath the door, too scared to breathe hard in case it alerted either them or it. Her chest seemed to tighten and her pulse caught in her throat as she reduced each breath.

Her eyes met the crack beneath the door and the stench of cat and burning flesh hit her nostrils, stinging them like she'd just sniffed acid in powder form. As she looked out she could see the floor of the lounge. The cream coloured carpet had gone and had been replaced by a badly burned wooden floor. The cat things were prowling like lions after a wildebeest that had gone into hiding. One of them was big and round. Debbie didn't know if had been fat when it was alive or if it had bloated when it had died. Unlike the others, this one still had a tiny amount of fur on its back and hind legs. It looked cream in colour but it was knotted like it hadn't seen a comb or the tongue of a cat in decades.

Two cats would always prowl together, Debbie observed. If one of them turned suddenly, the other would quickly follow. As she watched intently, she caught the gaze of a cat-thing. Its body was black like charcoal. The skin on the left side of its chest had come clean off revealing a burned rib-cage. Debbie was caught off guard by its eyes. They were beautiful; as blue as a clear summer sky, they outshone the entire room. Its eyes flashed with hatred, just for a split second. It hissed angrily and then charged towards the crack in the door, one paw outstretched, its claws gleaming in the light. Debbie was unable to remove her face from the bottom of the door in time.


	4. A Bleak Future

Its claws etched their mark into her cheek, once, twice, three times. Had she not closed her eyes, the cat-thing would have surely taken an eye out. She reeled backwards, but a claw had dug into her flesh and didn't want to remove itself. It pulled violently at her cheek, showering her in a fountain of her own blood. She flung her hands towards her face and somehow the claw became detached from the cat and protruded instead from Debbie's cheek.

It marked its minor triumph by howling loudly; it slowly rose in pitch like a war cry signalling victory. She stood to her feet, the towel lying around her waist and exposing her breasts. She barely noticed and hobbled towards the sink. She didn't want to look in the mirror. Clutching the sides of the basin with her hands, Debbie forced herself to look. Her face was smeared with blood and she once again wanted to vomit but didn't. She washed her face revealing three long, deep gashes stretching from her eyelid to her lip. There was a small puncture wound on her cheek and embedded in it was the claw that had caused all the damage. It was tiny. She couldn't understand how one claw could cause such damage and she realised that she didn't want to know. All she wanted to do was get out of this hotel and hug her kids and her husband.

She winced as she gripped the claw and pulled it out. A fresh gush of blood came pouring out of the wound. Flinging the culprit down the plughole, she quickly scoured the first aid box that the hotel had kindly supplied her, for a small fee. In it she found a box of plasters, unpeeled a few and stuck them to the wounds. When she looked in the mirror again she thought she looked like the walking wounded, but at least she didn't look like them. She was at least grateful for that.

Had the bathroom wall always been that dirty? In the mirror, the wall had lost its white glossy sheen and looked grey, filthy in places and with a large crack appearing in the centre. She turned around to face a glossy white wall, the plaster perfectly smooth and new looking. Her heart jumped into her throat. She spun around and looked into the mirror again. It seemed even worse than before. The crack had expanded and smaller cracks were branching outwards. The bit of wall that was nearest the door was darker in comparison to the rest of it. She turned away from the mirror once more and inspected the wall. White and glossy, without a mark on it. In the mirror the whole bathroom seemed to be decaying before her eyes. The bathtub had cracked and blackened, the shower had fallen off its mount and the walls went blacker still. In the mirror, the door was like firewood, charred and cracked.

She was breathing heavily as panic surged inside her. She was fighting this, oh God, she was fighting it; but she was fighting a losing battle. Her pessimism flared and her thoughts drifted to a bleak future. The future was there, in the mirror. When she looked again a strangled scream came from her mouth. The plasters on her reflection had burned partially off. Her eyes were red and bloodshot and her skin was slowly darkening before her wide eyes. Her hair, once wavy and dark, had singed and was turning white, coiling up like thin wiry branches on a dead shrub. As she watched, pieces of burned flesh hung on her face and then came clean off.

The door rattled as someone or something banged their fists on it. She jerked around, cracking her back again. This time she hardly felt the pain. The banging was coming from higher up this time, from a source that she guessed was near to her own height. Someone's come for me, she thought. Someone's come to rescue me.

"Please help me!" she screamed. "I'm trapped in here, help me!"

There came a reply but not one she was expecting. It came in rasps and angry wheezes. It was that large thing with the putrid breath that had crawled along the floor earlier. It seemed to be taunting her now, letting her know that it was either succumb to death out there by the hands of it and its cats or succumb in the bathroom as she slowly burned. Its breath continued to rattle and then she heard the words you and are. Nothing more. Just you and are. It banged more ferociously and sounded like it was going to come pounding through the bathroom door. Then it unleashed its final word before scampering off to wherever it had came from. Dying.

You are dying.

It had gained control of her. It and the cats. They had the ball in their court right from the word go. They knew that whatever choice she made, they would win. They'd got her as soon as she stepped into the room and started smelling the smell that no one else could smell. She started to wonder if all her choices had been chosen not by her own mind, but by them. Choosing to stay rather than check out, choosing to shower. She felt a sharp shiver go down her spine which made the hairs on her body stand on end and her skin crawl. The more she thought about it, the more she thought they probably had.

Her skin started to itch and at first she ignored it. She was lost in a world of morbid thoughts for a time. It wasn't until her neck and face started to burn that she realised the pain she was in. She scratched madly, furiously, knowing what was happening but trying to somehow scratch it into oblivion and make it all go away. As she looked around the bathroom was beginning to blacken. It wasn't a visible change; it was more like trying to watch the day turn slowly to night. You knew it was happening but you couldn't see the slow transition no matter how hard you looked.

She spun around quickly making everything around her blur. Her entire body was beginning to itch and burn now. She wanted to scream and opened her mouth to do so. A gush of hot air that came from nowhere flooded into her mouth and down her windpipe. She could no longer scream; her throat felt like it had swollen. Every swallow was an agonising feat. It felt like she was swallowing razor blades. Her throat itched madly and she fell to the floor in a heap, the no longer white towel falling loosely around her body.

Outside, the cats came to the bathroom door and started to claw it. One emitted that ear-splitting war cry that rose and rose and rose until the sound could have burst her eardrums. Then they all started. It gained such ferocity that she wanted to throw up again. A small trickle of bile was able to force its way up. Unable to cough it up, she opened her mouth and let it ooze out onto the floor. There was some blood in it. Another sound could be heard; the thing that might have been human began pounding on the door again, muttering incoherent gibberish. This time Debbie couldn't make out any words for the cats were still screeching.

She couldn't let them win. She was stronger than this. Debbie had always made the choices. Each path was chosen not by fate, no matter how vicious, but by her own free-will. Even when two paths ended in death she would be the one to choose which path to take.

A sudden surge of power rushed through her. She was able to lift her head and glance up at the bathtub. A beautiful silver tap, undamaged so far, was splendidly vivid against the dark, decaying bathroom. On it was the letter C; the cold water tap. Her chest fluttered at the sight of it and she was able to sigh with relief, something she wouldn't have been able to manage before. Pain went through her body as she lifted herself up and over the bathtub but she ignored it. She focused her thoughts on that tap, glimmering ever brighter as she got nearer to it. She jammed the plug into the hole and turned on the tap.

A cascade of ice cold water tumbled into the tub, splashing on Debbie's blazing red skin as she lay face down and spread-eagled. It rose slowly, not quite fast enough to assure Debbie that she would die more humanely than burning to death in a fire that didn't really exist. As she lay, the water washed over her sides and shoulders and she felt a soothing coolness as the water quelled her raging skin.

The cats and that no-longer-human thing vanished from her mind as she drifted to gentler but more poignant thoughts about her children and Colin. What they were doing, what they were feeling, what they were going to watch on telly over the weekend and what Colin would be cooking for the children and for her when she got back. He had always been a fantastic cook and loved cooking for her because she'd always eat it. Ellie would not be able to express it, but she'd be waiting for her mummy to return. Cassie would keep asking her daddy when Mummy would return in which he'd reply "Really soon, Cass. Really soon!" Except this time, she wouldn't be coming back. Oh God, how she wanted to. How she wanted to.

The water was covering her entire body now. Only her head remained above water. She was hesitant. She didn't want to die, but surviving this wasn't one of the choices. It was either death or death. A no win situation if ever there was one. As if trying to spur her on, a hot wave of air seemed to blast over her like a furnace had just been switched on and then a bright orange sheet of flame exploded over her head and covered the ceiling. The bathroom door flung open and the cat things ran inside quick as lightning, pouncing on her back, clawing, biting and scratching her. They tore chunks off her back and bottom, screeching wildly and emitting that fowl war cry.

The no-longer-human thing was there too, towering over her like a twisted God. Debbie could see its shadow dancing like a macabre black flame on the wall. She didn't want to look up at it. Instead she thrashed her arms about wildly, tossing each cat off her with a force she didn't think she had. She heard one of them hit the wall with a meaty thud and then the sound of cracking plaster.

The time was now. She had to do it now or die their way, the way they had all planned. She submerged her head into the cold water and breathed the water in. It seemed to freeze her gullet as she took it in, preventing her from breathing. She took more and more of it in until her whole head felt like it had pulsed and expanded. Suddenly, a hard bony hand gripped onto her head and tried to pull it upwards. It dug its long nails into her scalp and Debbie held her head down, her neck feeling like it would snap in half as the muscles worked furiously to keep her head submerged. It dug deeper but she would not give up. She realised after a few seconds that she'd closed her eyes. She opened them wide and as the water flooded into them she could feel them getting heavy. She breathed deeper in until her lungs could take no more and then she felt the entire world fall away around her.


	5. Epilogue

**24th November 2008**

He had been a detective with Bristol Police Force for twenty-five years and since the Bourneville Hotel had opened its doors four years later, there had been already been six deaths in Room 108. Four were suicides and two others had died in suspicious circumstances. The news of yet another suicide had shocked him greatly, but he had also been half expecting it. It wasn't the matter of if there was another suicide, it was the matter of when. And when had turned into now.

"Do we have any idea who the victim is?" he said to a fellow officer who looked too young to be in such a vital role. He was shaking slightly.

"Yes. She's a thirty-seven-year old woman called Deborah Manning. I er…mean, was. She checked in for the weekend. Do you think she had intended to end her life? I mean, do you think perhaps she'd booked the trip to die?"

"That could well be the case, Crosby, but we'll have to check the body and also the hotel room before we cast any judgements. Consider the evidence first. Investigating suspicious deaths without the proper evidence is like reading a half written story. Find the evidence, complete the story."

"Yes sir. Sorry sir."

"No need to apologise. Just make a note of it."

They entered the room. As he looked towards the bathroom he could see a forensic officer pouring over the body in the bathtub. He could see the body quite clearly. A limp, slightly grey hand was hanging over the side and her bare back and bottom bobbed eerily out of the water. It brought back chilling memories of the four previous suicides. Like those before her, her body looked immaculate with not a single wound or sign of a struggle. It couldn't be anything _but_ suicide. But why? What had driven them to it? And why had two other people died of suspected heart attacks on the very date that she had died?

He looked away from the bathroom and let the forensic officer to his work on Deborah's body. For now, he and his partner would inspect the lounge area. Nothing looked in disarray. In fact, it all looked pretty normal. Just like all the other times, he thought. The wrongness of the entire incident made him visibly shudder.

"Are you okay, Sir?" Crosby asked, noticing his edginess.

"Do you believe in the paranormal, Crosby?" he asked. The question just came out of him. He felt a little embarrassed.

"Not at all, Sir." He answered solidly and without doubt. A true sceptic. He thought he was one of those, too. Now he doubted it. There was something about this room. Always had been. The seventh death had occurred here just this weekend and it had happened on the 21st November, just like every other death had. It was beyond co-incidental. He shivered. Thankfully, Crosby hadn't noticed.

Just then his phone went off in his pocket. Even though he was a very busy guy with a very busy phone, it still managed to startle him.

"Detective Constable Redfern speaking. Oh? Are you sure? Okay, thank you. Yes, yes. I think it constitutes as extremely important in this investigation." He clicked off and his face went chalk white. "She smelled cats in this room, Crosby."

"Are you all right, Sir?" Suddenly, Crosby was beginning to sound like a broken record. Redfern ignored his question for the second time.

"She'd called room service to complain about the smell and the receptionist had sent one of the porters up here to check it out. According to his statement, he never smelled what Manning smelled. He just assumed she was a little crazy but I don't think she was. I don't even believe she was suicidal. I believe she was driven to it by something in this room. Before your time there was a terrible accident here, back when this place used to be a block of flats. There was a fire which killed three residents, including six cats. Do you know when that happened, Crosby?"

Crosby's face went deathly pale. Redfern knew that he'd already figured it out.

"21st November," he replied, swallowing hard.

He nodded gravely. "Are you still a sceptic?"

"Not anymore."

The End.


End file.
